The incense ashes collect on the windowsill, a reminder of attempts at calm contentment. The drywall dust collects on the hardwood, winter in August. There are slashes in the mattress, tears in the sheets, pocket knife excitement. There is no copper smell, no brown stains, and no bandages strewn about. A good sign. 
     Material over flesh.
     Droplets of sweat surround his lips and cling to his forehead. He’s trembling. Purples and blues paint his knuckles dark like Van Gogh’s Starry Night. The swelling will take hours to go down. White dust speckles his dark wash jeans, giving him the look of a painter or a builder.
      How had it come to this?
     It was only days ago that they had walked through the forest together. The sun was out, there was a cool breeze. Her hair was down. She smelled like sugar, and had flour on her jeans.
     She tells him to be quiet for a moment.
     “Listen,” she says, head thrown back, gazing up at the trees. Her hair touches the small of her back. He stops walking.
     That's when he hears it, the buzzing. Loud and all around them. Bees, she tells him. All through the fields and the tree tops. They were everywhere but they didn’t pay them any mind. They were nothing to them. Nothing at all. Just two people moving about the world.
     “Do you hear them?” she asks.
     “Yes.” 
     She looks into his eyes and laughs. He’s calm. Her laugh is like a lullaby.
     The dust is making it hard for him to breathe. With his purple hands, he opens the window, letting air in. There’s a cool breeze. One might forget the season if they focused too hard on the current temperature. He closes his eyes and breathes in. In through the nose, out through the mouth. All he can hear is her laughter. He’s calm.
      “Dove sei andata?”[1]


[1] "Where did you go?"

(10.11.2016)

​Today I built a deck. Figuratively.

I didn’t buy piles of wood boards and I didn’t find a way to haul them back to my home. I didn’t ask for help, I didn’t want any help to begin with. If I’m being realistic, I wouldn’t even be able to build a deck.
First reason being that I have no carpentry skills, and I don’t think building a sword replica out of wood sheets as soft as pillows counts for anything. Second, I live in a second-story apartment. These factors make for a deck-lacking version of myself.

Today I built a deck in my mind. I laid all the decking down and drilled the boards into place. I sawed off the excess to create a rounded finish like the curvature of a skull. The deck faces a forest of eternal trees, wide and tall trunks pressed close together, sun soaked foliage in masses toward their peaks. Everything was green and calm.

Everything was alive. It spoke to me, the way nature does, through wisps of wind and dancing pollen. The deck had no rail, so I built one. The rail is curved to match the deck, with recycled branches as banisters. It’s so beautiful, if only you could see it. The deck that faces the trees.

​Photos bring me little comfort. As I stare at the photographs on my cork-board I wonder with discontent, is this all that will be left of me? I sit here and waste away. Writing for no one or everyone, allowing my shoulders to curve inward, ruining my posture for all the years to come. The sky outside calls to me, but I ignore it for no good reason. I sit here with my distractions, technology that may or may not rot my brain and stain my insides with cancerous cells. All around me is nonsense, material that won’t last, waste.

I like it when the sky is gray
When the suns rays illuminate the clouds and everything is light gray and you know that there will soon be rain
Drip
Drip
It will cleanse everything
The sidewalks
The soles of shoes
The souls of people
The sun is covered by the clouds but there is still an immense light that shines through my window and brightens the room
Wake up
This is the type of weather that makes me want to get up and enjoy the day
Not the hot morning sun and not the cool night, but light gray before the rain